The Complete Works of Sir Philip Sidney :: :: University of Virginia Library

Alas how longe this Pillgrimage dothe last,
What greater evills have now the Heavens in store?
To cupple com̄yng harmes with sorrowes past,
Longe synce my voyce ys hoarse, and throate ys sore
With Cryes to skyes, and Curses to the grounde,
But, more I playne, I feele my woes the more.

Ah where was first, that Crewell Cunning founde,
To frame of earthe a vessell of the mynde
Where yt shoulde bee the self destruction bounde,
What needed so hye spirites suche Mansions blynde?
Or wrapt in flessh, what doo they here obtayne?
But gloryous Name of wretched humane kynde,

140

Balles to the starres, and Thralles to fortunes raigne,
Turned from them selves infected with theyre Cage
Where deathe ys fearde, and lyfe ys helde wth payne,
Lyke Players placed to fill a filthy stage,
Where Chaunge of thoughtes one foole to other shewes
And all but Jestes, save onely sorowes rage?

The Chylde feeles that the Man that feeling knowes,
With Cryes first borne, the presage of his lyfe,
Where witt butt serves to have true taste of woes,
A Shopp of shame, a Booke where Blottes are ryfe,
This Body ys, this Body so composde,
As in yt self, to nourish mortall stryfe.

So dyvers bee the Elementes disposde,
In this weyke worcke, that yt can never bee,
Made uniforme to any estate reposde,
Greef onely makes his wretched state to see,
Even lyke a Topp, wch noughte, but whipping mooves,
This Man, this talking beaste, this walking Tree.

Greef ys the Stone whiche fynest Judgment prooves,
For, who greeves not hathe but a blockish brayne,
Synce Cause of greef, no Cause from lyfe remooves,

Boulon.
Howe longe wilt thow with monefull Musick stayne?
The Cherefull Notes, these pleasaunt places yeelde,
Where as good happes a perfect state meynteyne.

Plangus.

Curste bee good happes, and Curst bee they that buylde,
Theyre hopes on happes, and do not make dispayre,
For all these certeyne Blowes, the surest sheelde,
Shall I that sawe Eronas shyning hayre?
Torne with her handes, and those same handes of snowe,
With Losse of purest blood, them selves to teare.

Shall I that sawe those Brestes, where Beutyes flowe
Swelling with sighes made pale, wth myndes diseaze
And sawe those eyes (those sunnes) suche showers to showe
Shall I whose eares her mornefull wordes do seaze,
(Her wordes in Syrop layde of sweetest breathe)
Relent those thoughtes wch then did so displease.

141

No, no, Dispayre, my daily Lesson sayeth,
And saythe allthoughe I seeke my Lyfe to flye,
Plangus must live to see Eronas deathe,
Plangus must live some help for her to trye,
Thoughe Dispayre (for love so forceth mee)
Plangus dothe Lyve, and shall Erona dye?

Erona dye? O heaven, yf heaven there bee,
Hathe all the whirling Course so smalle effect?
Serve all thy Starry eyes this shame to see,
Lett Doltes in haste some Alters fayre erect,
To those hye powers wch idely sitt above,
And vertue doo in greatest neede neglect.

Boulon.

O Man take heede, how thow the goddes do moove,
To Causefull Wrathe, whiche thow canst not resist,
Blaspheymous wordes the Speaker vayne dothe prove,
Alas, whyle wee are wrapt in Foggy Myst,
Of oure self Love, (so passyons doo deceyve)
Wee thincke they hurte, where moste they doo assist.

To harme us wormes, shoulde they by Justice leave,
His Nature, nay, hym self for so yt ys,
What glory from oure Losse can wee receyve,
But still oure daseled eyes theyre way do myss,
Whyle that wee doo at his sweete scourge repyne,
The kyndely way to beate us on to bliss.

Yf shee must dye then hathe shee lost the lyne,
Of loathsome dayes, whose losse how canst thow mone,
That doest so well theyre myseryes defyne,
But, suche wee are with inward Tempest blowne,
Of wyndes cleane Contrary, in waves of will,
Wee moane that Losse, (wch had) wee did bemone.

Plangus.

And shall shee dye, shall crewell fyer spill?
Those Beames that sett so many hartes on fyer.
Hathe shee not force eeven deathe with Love to kyll,
Nay, eeven coulde Deathe enflamde with whott desyer?
Her to enjoy, where Joy yt self ys thralle?
Will spoyle the Earthe of his moste riche attyre.

142

Thus, Deathe becomes a Rivall to us all,
And hopes with fowle embracementes her to gett,
In whose decay, vertues fayre shryne must falle,
O vertue weyke, shall Deathe his Tryumphe sett?
Uppon thy spoyles whiche never shoulde lye waste
Lett Deathe first dye, bee thow his worthy Lett.

By what Eclips shall that Sunne bee defaste?
What Myne hathe earst throwne downe so fayre a Tower?
What Sacriledg hathe suche a Sainte disgraste?
The worlde the garden ys, shee ys the Flower?
That sweetens all the place, shee ys the guest,
Of rarest pryce, bothe heaven & earth her Bower.

And shall (O, mee) all this in Asshes rest?
Alas yf yow a Phenix now will have,
Burnt by the Sunne, shee first must buyld her Nest,
But well yow knowe, the gentle Sunne woulde save,
Suche Beames so like his owne wch mighte have Myghte,
In him the thoughtes of Phaetons Dam̄ to grave.

Therefore alas, yow use vyle Vulcans spyte,
Whiche nothing spares to melt that virgin waxe,
Whiche while yt ys, yt ys all Asias lighte,
O Mars for what dothe serve thy armed Axe,
To let that witoulde Beast consume in flames,
Thy Venus Chylde, whose Beuty Venus lackes.

O Venus, yf her prayse, no Envy frames,
In thy hye mynde gett her thy husbandes grace,
Sweete speaking ofte, a Currish harte reclaymes,
O Eyes of myne, where once shee sawe her face,
(Her face whiche was more lyvely in her hart)
O Brayne, where thoughte of her hathe onely place?

O hande wch tuched her hande when wee did parte,
O Lyppes that kist that hand with my Teares sprent.
O Toungue then dumbe, not daring tell my smarte,
O Sowle whose Love, in her ys onely spent?
What ere yow see thincke, tuche, kisse, speake or Love,
Let all for her, and unto her bee bent.

143

Boulon.

Thy wayling wordes doo muche my Spirites moove,
They uttered are in suche a feeling fashion,
That sorowes worcke ageanst my will I prove,
Mee thinckes I am partaker of youre passyon,
And in thy Case do glasse myne owne debility,
Self guylty folcke, must proove to feele Compassyon.

Yet Reason saythe, Reason shoulde have hability,
To holde these worldly thinges in suche proportion,
As let them come or goo with even facility.
But, oure Desyers Tyrannicall extortion,
Dothe force us there, to sett oure cheef Delightfullnes,
Where, but a Bayting place, ys all oure portion.

But still allthoughe wee faile of perfect Rightfullnes,
Seeke wee to tame these Chyldish Superfluityes,
Let us not wincke, thoughe voyde of purest sightfullnes.
For, what can breede more peevish Incongruityes,
Then Man to yeelde to female Lamentacyons.
Let us some Gram̄er learne of oure Congruityes?

Plangus.

Yf throughe myne eares perse any Consolacyons,
By wyse Discourse, sweete Tunes or Poettes fiction,
Yf oughte I cease these Odyous exclamacyons,
Whyle that my sowle, shee shee Lives in affliction,
Then lett my Lyfe on earthe longe tyme maynteyned bee,
To wretched mee, the last worste Malediction.

Can I that knewe her sacred partes restrayned bee?
From any Joye, knowe fortunes vyle displacing her?
In morrall Rules, Lett raging woes conteyned bee,
Can I forgett, when they in prison placing her,
With swelling hart in spyte, and due Disdeynfullnes,
Shee lay for Deade, till I helpt with unlasing her.

Can I forgett from howe muche mourning playnfullnes?
With Dyamond in wyndow glasse shee graved
Erona dye, and ende this ougly paynefullnes,
Can I forgett, in how strange phrase shee craved?
That quickly they woulde her burne downe or smother.
As yf by deathe shee onely mighte bee saved.

144

Then lett mee eke forgett my hande from other,
Lett mee forgett that Plangus I am called,
Lett me forgett I am sonne to my Mother,
But, yf my memory thus must bee thralled,
To that straunge stroke wch conquerd all my sences,
Can thoughte still thincking so rest unappalled?

Boulon.

Who still dothe seeke ageanst hym self Offences,
What pardon can avayle, or who employes hym?
To hurt hym self what sheeldes can bee defences.
Woo to pore Man, eche owteward thing anoyes hym,
In dyvers kyndes, yet, as hee were not filled,
Hee heapes in Inward greef, that moste destroyes hym.

Thus ys oure Thoughte (with payne) for Thistells tilled,
Thus bee oure noblest partes dryed up with sorrowe,
Thus ys oure mynde, with too muche mynding spilled,
One daye layes up store of greef for the morowe.
And whose good happ dothe leave hym unprovyded
Condoling Cause, of Frendship hee will borrowe.

Betuixt the good, and shade of good denyed,
Wee pity deeme that, whiche but weykenes ys,
So are wee from oure hye Creation slyded,
But Plangus leste I may youre sicknes mysse,
Or Rubbing hurt the sore I here do ende,
The Asse did hurt when hee did thincke to kisse.

Thus did they say, and then away did wende,
Hye tyme for mee, for scattered were my Sheepe,
While I theyre speeche in my Rude Ryming pend,
Yet for that Nighte my Cabban did them keepe,
Whyle Plangus did a Story straunge declare,
But, hoarse and Drye, my Pypes I now must spare.